Broken Wings (2 page)

“You told my probation officer you needed someone to help out around here,” he said as his eyes continued to scan the property.

“Yes, with spring finally here we will be swamped with babies soon. I’ve already gotten quite a few baby squirrels. The cages you will be cleaning are where I wintered several different animals. They have all just recently been released.”

“What kind of animals do you usually get here?” Daniel kept his eyes on the trees along the edge of the clearing beside the house.

“Fox, rabbit, skunk, gray squirrel, fox squirrel, raccoon, opossum, bats, nutria, and an occasional river otter. But I have rehabbed chipmunks, beaver, a few owls, and once, a baby coyote.”

“What about deer?”

“As a permitted wildlife rehabber, the Louisiana Wildlife and Fisheries does not want us working with deer. There has been an increase in a certain kind of wasting disease in the Louisiana deer population and most injured deer are put down, along with any fawns. Deer are also very hard to return to the wild once they have bonded with humans.”

Daniel turned back at her. “So is this all there is to the place?”

“Why? What did you expect?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, something like the Audubon Zoo maybe.”

Pamela focused her gray eyes on his. “This is not a zoo,” she responded, indignantly. “It’s a wildlife rehabilitation facility. We care for orphaned and injured wildlife and do not keep animals for display to an indifferent public. If more people knew about what we do here, they would, hopefully, be less willing to support zoos and more apt to make donations to a cause that puts animals back into their natural habitat.” She gave the man another going over with her eyes as he stepped closer to her side. “What were you convicted of? I often have volunteers on the site and I want to make sure
—
”

“I’m not a serial rapist, Ms. Wells,” Daniel proclaimed in a perturbed tone of voice. “I hit a guy in the bar where I work for roughing up his date. He filed charges and I was busted for assault and battery. My sentence was one hundred hours of community service. Satisfied?”

“Did they throw in any anger management classes with that community service?” she quipped.

Daniel smiled, cockily, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. “No, the judge didn’t seem to think I needed any.” He stared into her face for a moment as if trying to figure her out. “So am I to call you Ms. Wells the entire time I’m here, or will Pamela be all right with you?” he questioned.

“Pamela is fine. We don’t stand on formality around here.” A loud sniff came from around Pamela’s feet. She looked down at the ground to see Rodney standing behind her legs, staring at the stranger.

“One of the rehabilitated returned to the wild?” Daniel asked as he nodded to Rodney.

Pamela leaned over and picked up the overweight ring-tailed creature from the ground. The animal cuddled against her chest and warily watched the man standing next to her.

Pamela shifted the heavy animal in her arms. “This is Rodney. He was rescued from a hawk when he was about two weeks old. He’s over a year now and I can’t get him to leave. He thinks he is one of the dogs.”

Daniel reached out to pet the raccoon, but the animal growled at him.

“He doesn’t like strangers,” Pamela quickly added. “All of the animals in this facility are wild. Do not pet them or try to treat them like a cute and cuddly lap dog.”

“And are there any more like him?” he asked as he motioned to the raccoon nuzzling up against Pamela’s neck.

“A few. You’ll meet them later. For now, I’ll show you to the cages that need cleaning.” She turned away and started toward the row of cages and sheds located a short distance from the back of the house.

Daniel directed his attention to the blue and white wooden cottage on his right. The home appeared clean and well taken care of. But on closer inspection some shingles on the roof had cracked and were falling away, and the paint covering the wooden boards along the side of the house had begun to bubble up and peel off. The house looked older, like many scattered around the countryside of Louisiana. It was an Acadian cottage that had been built when horse farms and cattle ranches had filled most of St. Tammany Parish. But such communities had long since given way to manicured subdivisions and posh country clubs as hurricane weary New Orleanians had left the city and taken over the lands north of Lake Pontchartrain.

“How many acres have you got here?” he asked, following her.

“Fifteen. There are another fifty acres behind this property that belongs to one of my patrons. So the animals have a large refuge to roam far away from any humans.”

Daniel watched as the raccoon rested his head against the woman’s shoulder as she carried him. “Is there any money in this sort of thing?”

Pamela stopped walking and turned to him. “There is no money here if that is what you’re asking. Everything is for the animals,” she said, scowling at him. “So if you are thinking you can steal from me, borrow equipment, or make a tidy profit from your time here, think again,” she curtly added.

Daniel raised his hands up in submission. “Hey, don’t get all bent out of shape, Pamela. I was just wondering why anyone would go to this much trouble for a bunch of stray squirrels.”

Pamela shook her head in disgust, leaned over, and rubbed her cheek against the raccoon’s fluffy face. “The cages are this way.”

She quickly turned and started for the cages at the end of the clearing, leaving a wide-eyed Daniel to follow behind her.

* * * *

An hour later, Pamela was sitting on the back porch of her cottage feeding a three-week old baby gray squirrel with a small syringe.

“So what’s this one’s story?” a woman’s voice asked behind her.

“Fell out of a tree and was dropped off last night by a lady from Ponchatoula,” Pamela said, not looking up from the small gray shadow of fur as it sucked voraciously on a syringe filled with formula. The helpless creature’s eyes were still closed and resembled a baby rat rather than a squirrel. Pamela delicately rubbed the animal’s cheek to encourage it to continue to suckle.

“And how many is that now?” the voice persisted.

Pamela turned around and was immediately hit head on by a pair of pale blue eyes. The young woman standing behind her was short, round, had sharp features, and long, light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Fifteen gray squirrels. Why are you keeping count, Carol?” Pamela replied.

Carol Corbin was Pamela’s accountant, manager, board member, and all around arranger of everything impossible. When the facility needed a new refrigerator, Carol found it. When the roof on the barn needed to be replaced, Carol got someone to donate the materials and found workers willing to help out. She was the glue that kept Pamela’s little sanctuary held together.

“I thought you were going to tell everyone we have reached our limit as far as baby squirrels go,” Carol said, placing her hands on her hips and frowning at Pamela.

“One more won’t make any difference.” Pamela shrugged as she glanced down at the tiny creature in her hands. “Besides, I don’t have any raccoons or skunks in yet this year, so I can take in more baby squirrels.”

Carol sighed. “Last year you kept saying you were going to cut back and we ended up with twenty-two baby gray squirrels, eighteen fox squirrels, fifteen baby raccoons, ten injured bats, nine rabbits, eight baby possums, six skunks, four fox kits, and one deranged owl.”

“Lester is not deranged,” Pamela clarified. “He just has issues.”

“He lives on ham and eggs and thinks hunting is something you watch other birds do on the National Geographic Channel. Has he ever left the tree outside of your bedroom window?”

“He’s working on it,” Pamela defended, turning away from Carol. “Just last week he got down on the ground and walked over to my back porch,” she proudly reported.

Carol folded her arms over her chest. “Let me guess, chocolate?”

Pamela shrugged. “Rice Krispie treats, but it’s a step. It’s the first time he has left the tree since he got here.” She gently pulled the syringe out of the mouth of the baby squirrel in her hands.

“I know you created this place as a haven for the wildlife, but you have to be realistic. The donations are not flowing in like they used to and the budget is getting tight, real tight. You’re going to have to accept the fact that we need to cut back on the amount of animals we take in. Between the formula, food, and vet bills, we are barely making it,” Carol informed her.

Pamela kept her eyes on the bowl of formula as she refilled her syringe. “I could apply for another of those federal grants for wildlife rehabilitation. They have helped us out in the past.”

Carol shook her head. “You know how much red tape and paperwork are involved with those grants. And after all the recent state and federal budget cuts, the competition for grant money to fund wildlife programs has become fierce. Besides, any grant could take several months to come through and we need an influx of cash now.”

Pamela placed the syringe back in the baby squirrel’s mouth. “I could go to Bob. He always said he would cover us if things got tight.”

Carol took a seat on the porch next to Pamela. “You went to him last year when the air-conditioning had to be replaced in your house.”

“But he would come through if I asked him,” Pamela insisted.

Carol placed a concerned arm about Pamela’s shoulder. “And how would Imelda feel about that? You two almost came to blows last year over the air conditioner.”

Imelda was Carol’s name for Bob’s second wife, Clarissa. A social climbing court reporter, Clarissa Turner had married him three months after Bob and Pamela’s divorce was final. She was a green-eyed beauty who had an affinity for designer clothes, lavish parties, and was known around town for her obsession with shoes. It was a running joke that Bob had bought their expensive mansion in the Garden District of New Orleans just to make room for all of Clarissa’s shoes.

“Clarissa is not as bad as you make her out to be, Carol. She cares about this place,” Pamela asserted. She gently started rubbing the squirrel’s pink stomach as it sucked on the syringe.

Carol laughed and quickly removed her arm from Pamela’s shoulder. “Are you kidding me? The only time the woman shows any interest in this place is when she is trying to get her name in the society pages of the
Times-Picayune
. And even when she does manage to get us any publicity, she insists that all of the donations be sent to her and not directly to you. Probably so she can buy that Chinese baby she keeps talking about adopting.”

Pamela pulled the syringe away from the baby squirrel and placed it back in the bowl of formula. “You know Bob doesn’t want to adopt a kid. He never wanted kids.”

“Then why did he divorce you?!” Carol said, raising her voice. “I thought you told me Bob wanted the divorce because you couldn’t have children.”

Pamela wrapped the baby squirrel in the towel she had sitting on her lap. “Bob didn’t leave me because I couldn’t have children. He left because I have lupus. He could not stand the thought of having a chronically ill wife.”

“So much for in sickness and in health,” Carol commented as she patted Pamela’s shoulder. “Bob always was a bit of a backstabbing son of a bitch, if you ask me. I guess that’s why he became such a successful attorney.” She stood up and looked down at Pamela. “But you can’t always depend on him to solve your financial problems, Pamie.”

“Don’t call me that, Carol.” She frowned. “You know I hate that name.” She paused for a moment as she rubbed the small squirrel’s round, pink stomach. “Anyway, there is always the settlement fund, if I need money,” she added.

Carol stomped her foot defiantly on the ground. “No, the money from your accident is your nest egg. You depleted half of it when you got this place up and running. As your accountant and your friend, I cannot stand by and let you squander anymore of it. That money is for when you really need it. In case you get sick and…” Carol left the sentence unfinished.

The “what ifs” had been hanging over Pamela’s head like a noose ever since she was first diagnosed with her chronic disease. It was not a possible death sentence that she feared. No individual afflicted with such a disorder feared death; they feared loosing control of their life. Lupus had robbed her of her marriage, her chance at motherhood, her health and, at times, her sanity. But she had secretly vowed that she would never let it take away her one form of happiness: her sanctuary.

“You worry too much, Carol.” Pamela stood from the porch still holding the towel in her hands. “You know I would rather have that money go to helping these animals than paying doctor bills.”

“You can’t go on forever, Pamie. One day you will have to slow down and hand this place over to someone who has the money and the connections to keep it going.”

“Don’t bring that up again, Carol. You and I both know what Bob will do to this place if he ever gets his hands on it. Or even worse, if Clarissa gets her hands on it,” Pamela said, raising her voice slightly. “She would kick all of the animals out and turn it into an exclusive retreat for overweight French poodles.”

“Well, if you can’t keep up with the taxes and the overhead, that, or something equally disturbing, will happen,” Carol affirmed.